


Letters for a golden home

by gyunikum



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Farrier/Collins if you squint, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, and torture, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyunikum/pseuds/gyunikum
Summary: After the end of the war, a stack of letters promises a home for Collins.





	Letters for a golden home

**Author's Note:**

> uh this started from a farrier/collins platonic fic with a bit of peter/collins, but i gotta watch the movie again to finish that (which i will, tomorrow, traveling 200km to another city to watch it in imax lol), but i got some feelings for peter/collins that i had to write out of my system, so this was born

It takes Collins a few more months after the end of the war to leave the airbase and go home— _home_ , for him, is the endless stretches of the sky, the gasoline slick belly of a Spitfire, but his superior dismisses him, sending him to an address Collins barely knows after five years even though he had lived there for at least eighteen.

That place is nothing more than a carcass of childhood memories and blasted rubbish in the possession of the Crown now.

He gets a weekend off, because the war might have ended and treaties might have been signed, but the next era to come is not yet for peace that millions of people had to die for, and England will need her knights in their rusty rattling armour, as disposable as they are for sins that should not be, in this future shrouded by a fog still heavy with gunpowder and the stench of death that will never leave the atmosphere. A promise for something that’s not there yet.

Home is where one grows up, where one’s parents live, where one pays the rent or takes a shit comfortably— where one is safe and sleeps peacefully, but Collins has none of these, and so he leaves for an address of a gentle whisper for _home_ , an address on a dozen letters signed under the same name that has never failed to tame the raging storming seas inside Collins’ chest in dire times of atrocities and agony.

On the train, empty as his bag, because rarely do people go to Dorset from London these times, Collins remembers that night five long years ago when he took the same route in the other direction, on a train flooded with young, hopeless soldiers. He remembers the golden haired boy who stared at Collins until the train rolled out of the station, and Collins stared back with a lopsided salute, hoping that he would never forget.

The last letter, first of which reached Collins just shy of one year after Operation Dynamo, signed by Medical Assistant Peter Dawson, starts with _Dear_ , and closes the short, three months old letter with _Yours Sincerely._

And that’s all Collins needs to have a safe place on the ground— he feels home when he reads Peter’s letters. It’s silly, he knows, but that _dear_ and _yours sincerely_ is the hearth to a Peter Dawson-shaped home that Collins longs, has longed for months to rest in its embrace.

_My last mission was on the Pacific. Served on two hospital ships— both of which were sunk. Should have learned how to grow gills._

Collins reads the letter as if it was his Bible, the paper wrinkled from opening and folding and holding it so many times.

_I got discharged. I’m planning on going back to Weymouth. Open a clinic. The Moonstone needs some fixing too after three years. I don’t suppose anyone was looking after her._

_You’re invited to the first ride after she’s ready. Whenever it may be._

“Yours sincerely,” Collins mouths along the closing lines. Peter’s name gets stuck in his throat.

Every time, now, and whenever Collins has ever thought about the boy – he should be a man by now –, and this time too, when Collins wanders the streets of Weymouth until he ends up in the quay, and he wants to ask a local if they know where Peter Dawson might be.

“Seen a ship named _Moonstone_ ‘round here?” Collins asks the teenager boy. He hefts his bag higher on his shoulder, and wipes a trickle of sweat from his hairline, it’s high noon in late summer, and he should have taken his coat off. Even the sea breeze feels too warm. Or maybe it’s just the thought of seeing Peter.

“I have, for sure,” the boy says. “She’s all the way on the other side, over there,” he points in a direction, and then squints either at Collins or the ship in the distance, the pilot is not sure. “Never seen ‘er sail yet, since this one bloke, the owner I suppose, finished repairing ‘er a few months ago.”

Collins finds the _Moonstone_ after a bit of searching, and she looks exactly the same as in Collins’ obsolete memories, under five layers of haze. The calm seawater rocks her gently, like a mother rocks the cradle of her baby, and Collins wonders if Peter is inside her belly, a restless child in need to be calmed by the swaying motion.

It’s something Collins has never had the chance to experience— a mother, with a cradle, that would rock Collins into a peaceful sleep he can’t even remember ever having one.

_You haven’t forgotten about Moonstone, have you? She’s saved a lot of lives that day. I don’t have the heart to sell her, though it’s tempting, I must admit. It’s the memories I don’t want to lose— that’s where we met, too. I would be lying if I said I remember everything clearly, because I don’t, and there are things I wish I could forget, but oddly enough, I can still recall the wet sound your body made when I pulled you on board. It always gives me a good laugh now—_

Collins chuckles, every time. He knows the contents of the letter by heart, yet it never fails to drag him across a whole spectrum of emotions.

He wonders what Peter looks like now. Five years, for a young lad like him, makes all the difference. How much weight must have he put on while he was training? How much taller has he gotten in those five years? Has his hair still the same golden tint that reminded Collins of a one-man cavalry?

Five years is a long time— especially for a pilot like Collins, sent all across the world to fight for the Crown. He’d fought alongside many different people on countless missions, and none of them could ever compare to Farrier, but Farrier is a place where Collins refuses to go, the other pilot’s face forever etched into his memory, unlike Peter’s.

Collins can barely remember most of the finer details of Peter’s face— there is no photograph to remind him. Just the letters, and his sarcastic yet pretty words.

 

“Oi, mate, this ain’t a hotel— get off the docks if you don’t work here.”

“’S alright, he’s waiting for me.”

Collins blinks the sleep out of his eyes, muscles groaning at the movement as he shifts out of his sitting position where he’s fallen asleep. The gulls are loud, and the sea laps at the feet of the wharf, knocking ships and boats against its sides. A group of people work the cargo of a ship in the distance. Someone shuffles, shoes scraping on the wooden planks of the pathway.

When Collins looks up, it’s almost the same as it was five years ago, with the difference that now he’s above water, and Peter looks much older than what he remembers.

Peter beams at him, like the sun hiding behind him, and Collins is not sure which one makes him squint not to go blind.

“You’re here,” Peter states, almost surprised, and his voice is, yes, deeper, hoarser probably from shouting – Collins can only imagine how life is on a hospital ship – but there’s his youthful tone underneath that had once asked Collins if he was alright, _how many fingers am I holding right now— dad, he’s okay_.

“I am,” Collins says, and grabs Peter’s offered arm. His backpack slips off his shoulder when he stands up, and it distracts Peter for a moment, long enough for Collins to gather his bearings.

“I— wasn’t sure if you’d ever come. It’s been two months since your last letter.”

“I just got a weekend leave,” Collins explains. His bag thumps next to his feet, and he releases the strap, but he stops himself before his arms can pull Peter into an embrace his bones ache for.

There he is, Peter Dawson, one of the few things that kept Collins going, like fuel for a Spitfire, it was his words and a promise between his lines for something that up until getting on that train Collins thought was but an illusion.

It’s not.

“I thought you would discharge,” Peter draws his eyebrows slightly in confusion, wrinkles on his forehead a little deeper.

Collins shakes his head, and he feels the cracks inside him grow larger. “I was born to fly.” It’s only gravity and Peter keeping his feet on the ground.

Peter smiles. He turns his head and looks at the _Moonstone_ behind them. “Care to accompany me while I take her on her first ride?”

“Of course,” Collins says, a promise fulfilled.

 

Peter operates the pleasure boat with knowledge and experience that’s past what a learned father can ever pass down to his son. Collins wonders how much time Peter had spent on the water in the past four or so years. He is no longer a lost child holding onto his faith in his father for dear life— his safety lines are his experience as he walks the tightrope of life above the abyss of death that they both were so close to falling into one too many times.

Ironic, to compare life to wire dancing, but in the cursive of Peter’s words, it always sounded poetic.

“Want a cuppa?” Peter asks from inside the boat. They’ve anchored, the waters shallow and peaceful. Sun is still high on the clear sky, and in the distance the shore is still visible. Collins can’t remember if he’s ever felt this detached from the world.

“With some sugar. Thanks,” Collins adds, and leans back on the edge to continue looking at the horizon. There’s the continent, large landmass hiding behind it— he doesn’t know if he wants to go or stay.

 _Peace_ is a word the world has forgotten the meaning of, and Collins isn’t sure if it’s really peace that he feels right now, or just an impostor— whatever it is, he doesn’t care now. It’s quiet, even when he closes his eyes, and the world has decided to leave him alone for time being.

“Cheers,” Peter says, sitting down next to Collins on the bench. The tea sloshes inside the cup as he hands it to Collins. He lifts the cup and takes a sip. Mundane. Collins cherishes each moment.

“You’ve grown up,” Collins finds himself saying. He blinks at Peter from behind his tea.

Peter laughs. “Yeah, that’s what people usually do.”

“No, I mean— you’re— different than when we last met.”

“It was five years ago,” Peter shakes his head with a smile. “We’ve been through a war.”

Collins purses his lips, wondering what he wants to say— there’s so much, so many things he wants to tell Peter at the same time that noting comes. He thought about it a lot, what he would say when they finally meet, but it’s all jumbled into a lump in Collins’ throat.

Peter stares at his hand holding the cup, and Collins notices it a moment too late.

“You never told me about that,” Peter says. There is no accusation or disappointment in his tone, just bit a surprise and curiosity.

Collins looks at the stub that once used to be his little finger. _What for_ , he wants to ask the boy – man – _what’s the point of acknowledging what the war has taken from us? It’ll just make its absence harder to bear._

That’s why he rarely thinks about Farrier.

Instead, he says: “POW camp in North Africa. My whole squadron went down. Would’ve lost more fingers if the Americans didn’t storm the camp. Or if I didn’t start talking.”

Peter scowls. At what, Collins is not sure. His breath is caught when Peter lifts his hand and sweeps his hair – still the same golden of youth, if a bit duller – behind his ear— or what’s left of it.

“Kamikaze attack. I was trying to save three people at the same time. Saved my own instead,” Peter admits and he looks away. The muscles in his sharp jaw tense as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t look upset, he’s already come to terms with it, but maybe he just can’t bear to see Collins judge him.

Collins doesn’t judge him.

“It’s survival,” he says quietly. “Human instinct doesn’t care about oaths and morals and sides. We’ve all done _bad_ things to survive— hell, back in that camp, I was ready to give up secrets of the Crown just to see another day.” He’s never told anyone about this— not even his superiors. The secrets, plans of future operations and gathered intelligence remained secret, and Collins’ wound was cauterized by an American medic. He survived the blood loss, and avoided the infection. And then he went back to England to report to duty and fly again.

“I thought I would join the Navy,” Peter takes over. Some of these, they’ve mentioned in the letters to each other, but it’s entirely different to say them out loud. It’s as if the words are carved into stone as soon as they leave their lips— words are ephemeral, and letters can be burned, but voice stays longer in the memory than anything written. “But I—”

Peter looks over Collins’ shoulder, into the cabin, down the stairs. It takes a second for Collins to realize what Peter is talking about.

“I couldn’t bring myself to kill. I just wanted to save people.” Collins holds Peter’s gaze. “I felt like I was indebted.”

“You’ve paid your debt,” Collins says. “To the country, to your parents, to your brother— to George.”

Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Maybe, if they were a few years before, Peter would be upset, but now, he looks calm— calm as the ocean, calm as Collins feels in Peter’s presence.

Collins sets his empty cup on the bench behind him, and raises his arm. The sea breeze catches in Peter’s hair, and in the collars of his shirt. He tips his head to the side when he feels Collins’ palm on his cheek. He wraps his fingers around Collins’ hand and nuzzles his palm before he presses his lips to Collins’ skin.

“Do you have a lover?” Peter whispers, eyes still closed.

“No,” Collins says, and scoots closer to Peter. Their knees and thighs touch. With his other hand, he takes hold of Peter’s hand in their laps. “Old age and madness will be my only companion. I’ve never been meant for normal life.”

Once upon a time, Collins thought he would marry a sweet bird from his hometown who would treat his grandparents like her own, and made the best tea in the town, but the sky was a jealous cunt to everyone who she’d let a taste of her intoxicating freedom. And then—

Farrier was a promise for a _home_ up in the sky, in their own cockpits, and their voices in each other’s ears static, flying so close to each other yet so far.

But Farrier is gone, the sweet little bird from his hometown is gone, his grandparents, the war is gone, and only Peter remains.

And Peter smiles, as if he triumphed, pearly white teeth, and his eyelashes rest on his ruddy cheeks.

“And you?”

“I’ll live buried in my work to save people.”

Collins’ heart plummets into his guts, bursts in his chest, and flies skyward when he feels Peter’s lips on his, cold, and his tongue tastes of the same tea but with a touch of milk, sweet, sweet little Peter, _Dear Peter,_

 _I can’t stop thinking about you_.

“Let’s go down,” Peter whispers into Collins’ mouth, presses an almost chaste kiss on his lips as if he has never thought about Collins fucking him, and leads Collins into the belly of the ship, a small room barely enough for two grown men, their lust the size of a destroyer, and pushes Collins onto the small bed.

He places both hands on Collins’ neck and pulls him in for another kiss, the sound of their tongues and their heavy breathing loud in the room. The walls feel like they are closing in on Collins, despite being used to small cockpits, but then there are Peter’s hands on his thighs and on his belt, and Collins doesn’t think anymore.

 

When the _Moonstone_ docks, it’s dark outside, and Peter steals a kiss just out of reach of the orange street lamp, in a dark nook where no one can see them, but their blood bubbles from the thrill.

“We really shouldn’t,” Collins whispers, but he, too, feels a streak of rebellion inside of him after so many years.

“Will you stay the night?” Peter asks, hopeful. He releases Collins’ hand as soon as they reach the cobblestone pavement leading away from the quay into the town. The streets are empty, but windows are still lit.

Collins thinks of the letters resting in one of the pockets of his bag, the nights he’s spent dreaming of golden haired boys on boats taking Collins on lifelong cruises, and he nods.

He’s found a place he can call home.

**Author's Note:**

> excuse my dialogues english is not my first language nor am i very knowledgeable on period-typical british slang
> 
> Im gyunikum @ Twitter if u wanna talk or sth


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